


Royal Blue, Cop Blue

by BlossomTime



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Carter has to be better than good, Dildos, F/M, Sexual Fantasy, and sometimes that's fucking hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8216339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomTime/pseuds/BlossomTime
Summary: Carter always does the right thing. But that doesn't stop her from thinking about the possibilities.





	

It had just been locker-room talk, bullpen bullshit, two uniforms talking too loud about a particular informant. He didn't do it for the money, the bigger guy said, he just loved cops, had a fetish. All he wanted was a cop dick in his mouth. Boys being boys, assholes being assholes, until a detective told them to shut the fuck up. 

It was the daily irritation of working in a building that sloshed with free-floating testosterone. You had to let it go or it would fester, and you'd imagine making a quick rabbit punch, the grind of your knuckles sliding the laughter right off a broke-veined red face, snapping a head back fast enough to muss a grown-out military haircut. 

Joss Carter had yet to take her own advice. 

Their stupid homophobic joke stuck with her, grew into something else in her mind. She caught herself dwelling on it in quiet moments for weeks after. 

In the shower: The quick exchange of money and information was always out of sight, always away from the precinct. If something more were to happen, who would see? 

At the grocery store: It wouldn't be coercive, it wouldn't be like the cops who demanded a beej for letting a girl walk after she was caught soliciting or for having a glass pipe in her purse at a stop-and-frisk. He would want it, want it desperately. 

Driving: It would be in a car, the early spring air outside so cold it feels sharp on your skin. 

In bed, unable to sleep, orange streetlight stabbing through the blinds: With the engine off and no radio, the only sounds would be mouth on cock, wet and urgent, his breathing rapid, through his nose, then a cop's quiet gasping breaths or a choked-off moan. 

Waiting in line for coffee: The windows would fog, the way they do the second the defrost clicks off in a patrol car. 

She was washing dishes, scouring dried-on macaroni from a pot, when she wondered-- if he wanted cop dick, would he mind _her_ dick? Would he mind sucking a strap-on? That would hardly even be sex, right? And that's a rationalization, she answered. 

She thought about it again when she masturbated, the image bubbling up unbidden. She tried to think of a strong lean chest against hers, hands stroking her body, kisses hard against her neck, but she kept returning to a head bobbing in her lap, her cock-- royal blue, cop blue-- jutting from her fly, her fingers tangled in his hair, hissing breath between her teeth. She came with a sharp grunt, her pussy clenching around her dildo as she slid it quickly in and out, grinding that sweet spot, the flared base tapping her clit. She whimpered, rolling a nipple between her fingers. 

It was a fantasy, that was all it could be. Probably said something about her, but she couldn't think what. She washed the dildo in the bathroom sink, stroking it through the soap suds like she was jerking it off. After she dried it, she watched herself in the mirror as she held it against her crotch, pressed hard on her clit. It looked good. _She_ looked good, her hair mussed, in a white tank top that had seen better days and pale blue boy-shorts panties that showed off her ass, a dark blue dick between her legs, gripped in her fist. Who wouldn't want to suck her dick? Her reflection gave a sly grin. 

When she tucks her toy away (in her dresser drawer, under a folded sweatshirt), that is when probability fractures. Every life has the potential to go along a nearly infinite number of paths, but in truth almost everyone sticks to the same few. Safety, compromise, and survival. 

You don't end up enlisting if you have many other real options. As much as you tell people that you ended up in police work because you wanted to make the world better, in truth it doesn't hurt that civil service rules and city politics add up to one of the few places a black woman can do well, get promoted, earn enough to support a small family. 

You have to watch how people see you. You have to be twice as good at your job, never ever slip up, be above reproach, above any suspicion. Straight as a fucking arrow to make sure you don't lose your job, lose your home, lose your kid. Even a high achiever, even a straight-A good girl feels the weight of that, the threat of it. 

Against that weight, what is this sliver of possibility? Telling your fantasy to someone you work with but barely know. Someone who knows what it's like to do what's needed to survive, to have to compromise so much of yourself. 

But how likely is that? You don't even know his real name. 

John would find some reason, some barely-plausible reason to brush a hand between her legs. And when he felt her cock there, under her practical black slacks, his eyes would darken, go half-lidded, his breath would speed, almost imperceptibly. His hands would almost tremble as he undid the button, slid the zipper down. He would spread his fingers so her cock was held in place between them, his palm hard against her pussy, tendons standing out on his lean forearms as he pressed between her legs. He would never say a word, but his whole body would beg. 

And she would let him. 


End file.
